The Guns of My Father

I come from a line of Gunslingers, on both sides of my family for at least three Generations. Both of my Grandfathers protected the people of my county. My Mother worked in the office of the High Sheriff. She did not patrol the streets, but she is a Female Gunslinger non the less. My Father, a Gunslinger of Gunslingers, worked his way from the lowest of positions to the High Sheriff.

My Father, in his day, was the Authority on S. W. A. T. team tactics in the Southeast. During his time as a S. W. A. T. team member he washed cars, cleaned guns, cleared buildings, and refined tactics for the team. As S. W. A. T. team commander he choreographed entry teams, sniper teams, negotiators, and perimeter teams. He even on occasion conducted the negotiations himself.

However, many long years ago at this time, my world changed forever. The Gunslinger of Gunslingers was taken in the blink of an eye and very unexpectedly. While driving home he had a massive heart attack. According to the coroner he never felt any pain. For that I am thankful. I do not remember much about the days that followed, they were a blur of tears, people, and flags.

What I took from those days was that my Father was well liked in the Law Enforcement community, as well as the community at large. People came out of the wood works telling story upon story how he helped them through a very difficult time. How he saved lives.

Several days later I received a message from the High Sheriff. He did not say what about, just that he wanted to see me. I found it hard walking the halls in the building that used to bring happy childhood memories. It became harder as I neared the Office where My Father did so much good.

The secretary let me into the Office. The High Sheriff was not there and she merely stated that he would be back shortly. I walked toward the desk and stared at the empty chair that my Father had once occupied. I fought the flurry of memories to keep my waining composure. After a few minutes by myself the High Sheriff came in. He did not sit in the chair as I thought he would.

He stood with me in the middle of his office and we talked like old friends. I had met him on several occasions prior to this, most while my Father was the High Sheriff. After a few minutes of talking, he told me to wait where I was and he left the room. Seconds later he returned with a small brown box. He handed it to me and told me to open it.

As I opened it and recognized what the box contained, I lost what little control I had over my emotions. Tears began streaming down my face as the High Sheriff confirmed what I already knew. "It's your father's service pistol. The Captains and I didn't think it right to give it to anyone else." I broke protocol and hugged him.

I say that I broke protocol, however, due to the fact that I was years away from working for the High Sheriff at that point, he did not mind. I only say that because I do not hug. I hug family, sometimes. And I certainly do not hug anyone of importance.

The pistol given to me that day was an average Glock 27, .40 caliber with a finger extension on the magazine. However, it holds more value to me than anything else that I own. Well, almost more.

The only other thing that hold the same value to me is a simple Glock 19. It was given to me by my Father on my birthday. This weapon has been fired only a hand full of times and kept meticulously cleaned. However, it is kept where it can be quickly retrieved in a time of need.

The Glock 27, the Gun that my Father used and relied upon for most of latter part of his career, is battle scarred. It is scratched, faded, and beat up. I do carry this weapon from time to time while on duty, mostly on days when I go to court. But, most of the time that I carry this weapon is off duty, for the obvious concealability in both cases.

These may not be the Big Guns of Deschain that were passed down from father to son for a millennia. In fact they may be the total opposite, but they are the Guns that my Father would want me to have, and when I carry them I remember the face of my father.

Semper Fi Deus
Goose